Beggar's Chicken
by Webster
Summary: Merlin and Arthur are on the run in the forest. To get back to Camelot alive, they'll need Merlin's special skills. No, not those skills… Features wilderness survival and gourmet cooking.


The royal visit had started out so well. The king of Gwynedd welcomed Arthur and his entourage and feasted and entertained them for two days. On the third day, their hosts invited them on a hunting trip. To everyone's surprise (except possibly Merlin's) the goal of the hunting trip was not deer, boar, or duck, but rather luring the King of Camelot off into a deserted area to murder him.

Of course, the folk of Gwynedd were also magic-users who managed to deceive Arthur's knights well enough to send them all home without him. Arthur never did quite figure out how he and Merlin escaped the hunt, but the two of them wound up fleeing, on foot, just a few hours ahead of what they assumed was a large and well-organized pursuit.

When the light began to fail that night, they had, by Arthur's best estimate, covered twenty miles. Merlin had turned up a few edible weeds, and at one point they even tried nibbling pine needles, but it hardly put a dent in their hunger. Without a proper meal, they couldn't sustain such a pace on foot for much longer, which meant they might be overtaken.

The two men faced each other in the twilight.

"So, it's four days' walk back to Camelot, and we've no food, no horses, no weapons, not so much as a blanket. Any good news?"

"It's too early in the spring to find much forage, but we can follow the stream all the way back, so at least we have water," Merlin replied, not looking up.

"True. It would help more if the stream were big enough to have any actual fish. Any other good news?"

"We've got a knife."

"Yes, _my_ boot knife, which you've taken to… What _are_ you doing with those plants?" Arthur asked.

"Making cord," Merlin answered.

"Why?"

"To set a snare. That's a game trail back there."

Arthur glanced over. "You're right. Wait, you're trying to hunt something?"

"I'm _hungry_," Merlin said irritably, "Not bored and looking to kill something for fun."

"Where did you learn to set snares, anyway?"

"I never poached on Camelot's land," he answered indirectly.

"Only on Cenred's, I suppose."

Merlin shrugged and walked off into the woods, bringing his cords with him.

"We shouldn't risk a fire tonight, we're still too close to the stronghold." Arthur went on.

"No tinderbox, anyway," Merlin muttered. He didn't need a tinderbox, of course, but he could hardly tell Arthur that. And he really didn't have the energy to fuss about pretending with a firebow.

"Still, it's somewhat chilly out here. Can't have you freezing to death."

"Wind's from the west, and likely to stay that way all night. The east side of that big rock ought to make a half-decent shelter."

"Merlin, one rock is not a shelter."

"It's a start." Merlin reached down and picked up an armful of leaves. "You could help."

"We're going to sleep in a leaf pile behind a rock?"

"That, or the hard cold ground. Your choice, Sire."

"At least we won't be found tonight," Arthur said a little later, from the depths of his leaf pile. "You look more like a mole than a man right now, I can barely see you under all those leaves."

"Well, you look like a bear." Merlin burrowed a little closer to the king, seeking warmth. His elbow rammed into Arthur's leg, but the king didn't bother to shove him away.

To Arthur's astonishment, the next morning, they found a pair of large pheasants inside Merlin's snares. Merlin grabbed the birds cheerfully and field-dressed them.

"We'll have a fire tonight. And a hot dinner!" Merlin bragged.

Someone's stomach rumbled, and each turned to look at the other.

"Let's go. Keep your eyes open, we might find something else to eat, something that doesn't need cooking."

Once again, edible plants were few and far between. They bent to drink from the stream over and over again, but it did nothing to ease the hunger pains. Time and again Merlin stared at a tree or shrub in flower, muttering, "Just a little later, and there would be fruit." Still, the promise of pheasant kept them moving.

"I wonder what it would taste like raw," Arthur wondered.

"Trust me. Don't try it."

With the sun high overhead, Arthur looked down and stopped. "Flint!"

"Tinderbox," Merlin replied, relieved. He gathered several good-sized pieces and wrapped them in his neckerchief.

The second night, they risked a fire. Clear skies suggested a bitterly cold night ahead, perhaps one last frost, and they had to cook the pheasants which had hung from Merlin's shoulder all day long.

Gathering firewood by twilight without an axe was never Merlin's favorite activity, but, with the help of Arthur's flint, they soon had a lovely little fire. Once it was well lit, Arthur looked at the pheasants, a little desperately.

"You know, we don't have a pot. Or a plate, for that matter."

"That's all right. I'm going to show you an old village trick called beggar's chicken."

"They aren't chicken, they're pheasants. And why would beggars have chickens, anyway?"

Merlin ignored him and took the pheasants down to the riverbank. Curious, Arthur followed. To his confusion, Merlin started to wrap the birds in riverbank mud, head, feathers and all. "My mother would stuff the bird with salted bread and herbs, but it should work even without."

"Why are you wrapping our dinner in dirt?"

"It's clay. We don't have a pot, so I just made a temporary one."

"What next?"

"Next we let the fire go down to coals. Don't burn my shovel." Merlin hefted his sturdy forked branch.

They stared into the flames impatiently, shaking with exhaustion and hunger, but they were in luck: the wood was dry and the fire burned down fairly quickly. Then, Merlin shoved the glowing coals aside and dug down below the firepit. He pushed a few coals into the hole, dropped the pheasants in, then covered it with a layer of soil and pushed the fire back over it.

"Why don't you get some sleep, Sire. I'll take first watch and wake you when dinner's ready."

Arthur lay down on the ground, stomach still growling. To his surprise, he actually did sleep for a while, and what woke him was not Merlin's obnoxious cheer, but the delicious smell of cooked meat.

One of the pheasants was already opened, clay shell broken in pieces like a hatched egg. Merlin was tapping at the other with a rock. "Good, ah, morning, Sire. Your supper is ready." Merlin gestured to the opened bird. The feathers had stuck to the clay, for the most part, leaving behind only skin and meat. Arthur did not hesitate to rip off a drumstick and cram it into his mouth.

Beside him, Merlin finally managed to open the second pheasant, and began tearing into it with both hands.

Having eaten both drumsticks and thighs, Arthur paused to lick his fingers. "This is extraordinary. It's tender like stewed meat, but it's got the flavor of roasted meat."

"It is good, isn't it," Merlin mumbled indistinctly around the wing in his mouth.

"Of course, it could also be that we're half starved."

"Mmmhmm."

"You'll just have to make it again on our next trip, so we can be sure."

"Mmmmm."


End file.
